Keraunophobia
by Sandshrew777
Summary: There are some things that only your brother knows how to do, to say, to feel. In one night and one morning, both Edmund and Peter remember this feeling. A fourshot. Brotherfic. Extreme fluff warning.
1. On a Dark and Stormy Night

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I don't own the poem from which I quote. I do, however, own a salad that's about to be demolished, and some chocolate pudding that I forgot about until now. **

**Author's Note: This is the first chapter of a four-chapter story. It's not much, but it came to me and I wanted to write about it. I haven't done a chaptered short story in a while, either. Each chapter is inspired by a quatrain of a poem that I read and loved - still love, actually. Please read, and please review.**

**

* * *

**

_"Love, if I weep it will not matter,_

_And if you laugh I shall not care;_

_Foolish am I to think about it,_

_But it is good to feel you there."_

- "The Dream", Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Edmund always wondered if thunderstorms were God's way of saying, "Go inside, spend time with your families." Of course, Edmund always hated thinking that because it meant he'd have to spend time with Peter and doing that was a royal pain in the pincushion.

But that kind of thought - that timbre - was scarce now. Even recollections of the way he'd once felt toward his brother were as hazy as the nimbus clouds racing across the night. He could see the sky from his open balcony, even from his bed although he'd had to move his bed. He'd had some help from some fauns, who _insisted_ on not letting the young King do much of anything for himself when it came to such physical matters, to which Edmund replied, "If I thought it would work, I'd order you to let me help!" As Edmund found out five seconds later, desperately holding up his corner of the massive bed, it did indeed work.

Edmund smiled as he recalled the memory, rolling his left arm around in its socket as a phantom soreness rushed back into it. It had been a scant four years since then, four glorious, long years since his stupid stubborn self did...well, things.

He frowned as he flung himself off of his bed, his royal pajamas sticking suddenly to him, the tassels at the cuffs slashing at the air. (Mrs. Beaver had _insisted_ on making him a pair of pajamas and he couldn't very well tell her no, not after...everything.) He hadn't meant to get on this thread again. He'd told himself - Aslan had told him! - that it did no good.

And yet here he stood on his balcony, right at the edge, his hands on the iron railing, thinking about the storm. A few droplets of rain speckled onto his face every now and then, but for the most part the balcony a floor above him kept him from getting drenched.

He'd thought it rather awkward, in the beginning, that he and his siblings were so far apart from one another in the castle. Edmund was just a floor below Peter, but to get to him he had to walk all the way to the other side of the castle to find the stairs. Susan and Lucy's rooms did much the same thing a floor and two floors, respectively, above Peter's. It wasn't until he'd asked Oreius one day about it that he learned it was "in case the worst should happen." Edmund hadn't understood and the stalwart centaur had continued: "In case we are overrun."

He needn't have said any more. Edmund realized that if the castle were to be taken over, invaded somehow in the night, the first of them to be captured or killed would be Edmund himself. By the time they would have gotten to Peter, however, Edmund would have to have raised enough noise for Peter to at least be alerted, if not armed and primed for a rescue.

Edmund thought that was rather fitting. He remembered smiling at Oreius after he had said that, remembered Oreius looking at him with a small smile of his own. Edmund liked to think it was a proud one. But of course, he didn't know.

The rain was picking up now and the lightning matched its intensity with its frequency. The thunder had been mostly silent, but Edmund's ears could make out a few distant thumps. It would be good for the crops. Many of the farmers Edmund had met with that week said that the unusually dry season thus far was dangerously close to ruining the tender wheat and most of the oats. The barley was fine and the rye would last, but the wheat needed help. Edmund wondered if God was listening and decided to reward His people with a little much-needed return on their faith.

Edmund smiled.

A knock came at his door.

"Enter," he called over his shoulder, wishing for not the last time that his voice would just permanently break already so he wouldn't be embarrassed every time he opened his mouth. Edmund heard the door open and quickly shut, padded feet - human feet, in...socks, perhaps? - slide one, two; one, two, across the hard stone floor. Edmund had never asked for any rugs to be laid down anywhere, to cover anything up. It was good for him to wake up in the morning and have his feet remember the cold dungeon he'd found himself in four years ago.

"Ed?" a voice called.

Edmund frowned. The voice was timid, unusually timid, unusually soft and unusually here at this time of the night?

"Yes, Peter?" Edmund replied. He kept his face to the storm - whatever Peter wanted could be answered rather quickly, he figured. Peter was so busy lately that if he ever came to see Edmund it was to ask him about some feature on some map that he couldn't remember or what color hunting outfit was best for his outing the next day or something else trivial and quickly, always quickly answered.

So when Peter didn't say anything else and Edmund got impatient enough to turn back to the torches and candlelight of his room, he received quite a surprise.

Peter was shaking, quite visibly shaking, almost as if he were cold despite the easily warm night. He was staring very determinedly at his feet but his head was squarely on his shoulders - too much crown wearing for all of them to disregard posture at any time, after all - so Edmund could see that he was crying.

Wait, crying?

"Peter? What's the matter?" Edmund asked. In three quick strides he was off the balcony railing where he'd eventually found himself sitting and rushed over to stand in front of his brother. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands or his feet or any of himself, really, except to get closer. So he just stood there and waited.

Eventually, Peter replied, "The storm."

He needn't have said any more. With as stifled a gasp as he could, Edmund remembered an eight-year-old Peter screaming as they were walking from somewhere, walking to somewhere. The details were fuzzy, but Edmund could remember a screaming Peter and terrified shrieks every time the thunder clapped above them and not really knowing what to do except to tell his brother to run faster to wherever it was they were going.

And then the words came out of his mouth before he even knew what they meant, before he even knew they were the right thing to say:

"Come on."

Edmund put his right arm firmly about his brother's midsection and guided him to his bed. Peter was shaking even worse now. Edmund could smell the sweat breaking out of him, parching the skin underneath Peter's pajamas.

They got to Edmund's nightstand and Edmund heaved the blankets off his bed with his free left hand. He always liked to be completely cocooned at night, no matter how warm it was, and he was thankful of that because Peter was positively icy underneath his grip. Peter ambled awkwardly onto the bed, curling himself into as tight a ball as he could almost as soon as he left Edmund's grip. Edmund went around the bed to get in on the other side.

He wished he hadn't.

A rumble of thunder slammed into the air, into Peter who let out one long, banshee-like wail.

Edmund never moved faster. He was in the bed and had his arms around his brother and the blankets tucking Peter and him in so tightly. It was almost like they were wombmates, twins.

Peter's wail ended just as Edmund got his arms around his sobbing brother.

"I'm sorry, Eddy," Peter whispered between thunderclaps. "I usually go to Susan. But you were closer."

Edmund smiled despite himself.

"Shh. It's okay, Pete. Just try to sleep, okay? Just...try to sleep," Edmund whispered. "I'm here."

The storm lasted for about an hour and a half and neither boy managed to sleep until the rain became a dance of tiptoeing needles instead of tangoing elms. In the near-silence, Edmund just caught wind of distant bells ringing - not tolling, but ringing, almost celebrating something.

"D'you hear that, Pete? It sounds so...familiar," Edmund whispered.

He received a light snore in response.

Edmund smiled and shut his eyes, resting his head as comfortably as he could on Peter's shoulder and neck. He tried to remember what the bells reminded him of, but he couldn't put it together until after sleep took him over.

And in the dream, a dream he wouldn't remember come morning, a sandy-haired boy screamed and shrieked, almost in pain. The even younger black-haired boy next to him put a rain-slicked arm around his shoulders and told him to run with him, run home, he could make it, he could do it. And so they ran in the Sunday afternoon storm, ran from the church doors all the way to their house where their mother was waiting with warm towels and tight blanket hugs.

* * *

**Author's Note: If you're a medieval scholar, you might know the connection bells traditionally have with storms, especially in Anglo-Saxon England. If not, well: there's a connection. :) I'm not going to show my hand quite yet, though. But please review! **


	2. You See, My Mind Takes Me Far

**Disclaimer: I still don't own anything related to Narnia, and I still don't own the poem from which I quote. I own some strawberry Jell-O, though.**

**Author's Notes: Welcome to the second chapter of four. Last time, Edmund was reflecting during a storm and Peter interrupted all that. **

**A side note: an anonymous reviewer made a great comment about the bells in the last chapter. I had a certain medieval superstition in mind, but what the reviewer brought up certainly applies, too. :)**

**I hope you enjoy it - and please review!!**

**

* * *

**

_"Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking -_

_White and awful the moonlight reached_

_Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,_

_There was a shutter loose - it screeched!"_

- "The Dream," Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

While Edmund dreamt of boys and church bells, Peter found himself within the throes of nothingness. There was darkness in his dreamscape, as if he had just closed his eyes and those little flashes of light that usually linger in the black weren't dancing anymore, those retinal remnants having been swept away by something else entirely. It wasn't even the night sky, that darkness, because there were no stars.

There was nothing here but Peter, although it was more his mind's presence than anything because he didn't feel like he had arms or legs or even a voice. He tried to say something, tried to move, tried to smell something - but there was nothing.

He didn't know how long he was there; whether he was sitting or standing or even balancing on one foot in the darkness, he couldn't know. But he did know that when the watering can appeared, it meant things were going to change.

And indeed, once the guileless can appeared, decked in pale vermillion and nicked here and there, the darkness began to slide away like fog. A scene revealed itself, an outdoors scene. A woman in a green-and-white polka dotted dress drifted there - a human woman, even, such a rarity in Narnia. Bent from the waist, a scimitar personified, she smiled as she guided her hand down a row of freshly dug dirt. The dirt was brown, as dirt should be, clearly unremarkable.

Yet a sandy-haired boy who appeared next to her stared into it like it held emeralds just a stratum below the topsoil. He was clutching the watering can because if he did this like the woman asked, he could make the emeralds sprout. That would make her smile. She didn't do that too much lately. Peter wondered why. Her smile was very pretty. Very familiar, too.

But the can wouldn't tip. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the can to move. Peter wondered why. It certainly looked very light. This should be easy.

Then Peter realized nothing here was moving. The can, the boy's arms, the crabapple trees a few feet away: all were stationary. He looked up at the woman in the dress, at her face frozen into an almost-smile but not there yet, always on the cusp.

At the borders of his vision the scene began to disintegrate, filtering away slowly like the edges of burned parchment until there was just the boy and the woman, then just the woman, then just her face locked into his memory.

And then, like a belt cinching and finally feeling his trousers secure about his waist, Peter realized he was dreaming and he reached out somehow, reached out without arms, with something else entirely to try and keep the woman from vanishing. Her face was still there, flickering at the edges. He pulled and pushed and peeled at the edges of his vision, forcing back the burning blackness as if he were stretching taffy. Soon, the scene began to reappear, slowly, as if each effort he made was painting a stroke of it back into his sight.

And when he'd recovered it all, when he didn't have to fight anymore and just stopped pushing and pulling and peeling, the scene stuck. Now the blackness had vanished and the woman - there was something about her, something - the woman was moving. Slowly, as if each effort she made were almost too much for her frail frame, but slowly she straightened and slowly she put an arm onto the boy's shoulder. Peter smiled up at her, feeling her warmth on his shoulder, and slowly tipped the watering can to let the rain fall on the fresh ground.

When he'd gotten each of the four rows finished, the woman trailing behind him all the while with her hand or a smile on him, the boy looked up at her.

Peter heard himself ask, "Did I do it right?"

And the woman smiled larger than she had before, age lines just lining up at the edges of her eyes like they'd forgotten their job and had run to get there in time.

"You did an excellent job, honey," the woman said, patting his hair. Peter loved that. He always did that to Edmund, except he'd ruffle it and Edmund would blush and grumble that he'd messed it all up and shove his own fingers into it to put it all back into place. Peter always thought it looked better after both of them had messed with it.

"It's time to put everything away," the woman instructed. Peter watched the sandy-haired boy nod and wander off somewhere with the watering can, somewhere outside of Peter's vision. He reached out for him, tried to bring him back like he had for the woman, but he couldn't find him.

The woman watched the boy leave. Her smile remained the same but her eyes changed, watered, pooled.

"So much like his father," she murmured.

Peter's eyes stung.

The woman turned slightly, as if interested in some snapping twig or rustling bush. She ended up staring aimlessly, staring at the watching Peter.

"I miss him," she whispered.

And Peter didn't know who she was talking about and wondered if he could wake up now because he didn't want to see this. He didn't want to see her cry.

"Where are you?" Peter heard the boy call, and he'd said another word after that, an important word Peter knew he knew but he couldn't hear it. The dream was fading now, fading and not burning, just slipping away like water through his fingers, slipping away like a dream.

--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--

When Peter awoke, he found himself somewhere unfamiliar, a large off-white moon staring at him through an open balcony. Slowly the events returned to him as his vision adjusted to the darkness and light: the storm, his brother, Edmund's room.

Instinctively, he glanced aside to see that Edmund's arms had disentangled themselves from his brother in the night somehow and were now firmly wrapped around himself. Peter smiled and slowly, carefully slid out of the bed, stocking feet warming the cold stone floor as he let himself stand.

He walked to the balcony, walked across the moonlit floor to stand and peer out over the railing's edge. He couldn't see much in the moonlight and most Narnians were asleep now anyway, but those nocturnal creatures who were out were worth watching nevertheless. Owls hooted their approval of the fresh, wet air and Peter could almost see some raccoons rustling about far, far below. But it was too dark to see much of anything.

Peter stood there for a while, letting the wind run through him and around him. Until he found himself shivering, he hadn't even realized that the wind was rather cold tonight. He glanced back at his sleeping brother and noticed that he'd forgotten to put the covers back where they should have been. Now Edmund was going to be cold, and Peter knew there was nothing worse than a cold Edmund.

They'd all seen what happened when Edmund was exposed to the cold for too long.

So Peter hurried on tiptoe back to the bed, determined not to wake his brother up because there was almost nothing worse than an Edmund without his beauty sleep (that's what Susan called it and Peter heartily agreed). He eased himself back in with just a light screech from the bed, a small protest that Edmund didn't hear. Facing Edmund's innocent sleeping face, Peter covered them both back up although he noticed Edmund wasn't shivering. So he'd remembered in time after all.

Smiling at that, Peter watched his brother sleep until his eyes remembered what hour it was and slowly slid shut.

* * *

**Author's Note: A little later than I wanted, but I like it. I hope it wasn't too confusing, too subtle, or too boring. Two more chapters to come, so please do review!**


	3. But My Heart Dreams of Return

**Disclaimer: I still don't own anything here, not the characters or the poem or any Pop Tarts. **

**Author's Note: Welcome back. Last time, Peter had a dream and had a little time at the end of the scene to reflect on things. We return to Ed's bedroom for this installment. Please enjoy, and please review!**

_

* * *

_

_"Swung in the wind - and no wind blowing -_

_I was afraid, and turned to you,_

_Put out my hand to you for comfort - _

_And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew."_

- "The Dream", Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

It was in that trance between awakeness and sleep that Edmund felt a naked, chilly wind. It got like that sometimes in his room, but never when there were storms. When there were storms, the wind was warm and promised newness with every flash of ozone-giving lightning. And in Edmund's dreams it was still storming, storming even though his dream had technically ended thirty minutes ago and his sleep cycle was just coming about to its end now.

Now was a time of thresholds, a time of in-betweens, a time where Edmund knew nothing but what he saw and smelled and felt, and everything, everything was cold. So when he came to awareness at last and the dream dissipated, like icicles collapsing from Peter's balcony above his during the spring thaw, Edmund didn't want to open his eyes. He was caught between the real and the unreal, the supernatural and the now, the past ever mired in his present.

He felt the cold and he knew he was back _there_.

The dungeon floor was too icy for him to try and stand on; he'd tried and ended up falling before he could even get halfway to his feet. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing but his ice-covered iron chain that refused to break no matter how hard Edmund tugged and scraped and clawed at it. He was wild those first seventeen hours, something primal, tears and screams of rage uniting as he writhed to get free; he was wild until the tears upset the balance and took over, freezing on his face as they collapsed down his cheeks. Then he was human again and could feel nothing but the cold and the guilt.

So whenever Edmund woke to the cold, to that icy reminder, he would lay there and shiver no matter the temperature. He would refuse to open his eyes until he remembered where he was and who he was and why that wasn't true anymore, that Aslan had saved him and he was _worthy_. And then he would open his eyes and smile at the morning sunshine and all would be well.

Until the next time he felt cold in the morning - then it started all over again.

This morning he woke to that numbness and his mind began to trudge through the knee-deep snow that was sleep still guarding him from doing much of anything. As he began to remember, his hand shot out. At least, it tried to; it met a wall of blankets and began to seize, wildly pushing and scraping and clawing to escape, desperate for freedom. It met slightly colder air and pushed out, further, just a bit further now because in just a second his fingers would find Peter's shoulder and for once it would all be okay. For once he wouldn't have to convince himself for a half-hour that he was a good person and that Aslan had saved him and Aslan had done it because he knew Edmund was a good person who just needed a second chance and he was okay, he really was.

For once, he wouldn't have to go through all that; Peter would be there and just one touch would fix it all. He'd touch Peter's shoulder and Peter would be warm and just like that, it would all be over.

But things were not as Edmund had remembered. His hand shot out blindly and did not find Peter. Edmund's hand scrabbled among the bedsheets, blankets, pillow: nothing. Nobody was there. The other hand came flying out as Edmund blindly searched, his hands now feeling not bedsheets but sheets of ice; not blankets but a chain; not a pillow but frozen tears.

He was halfway to a wailing scream when a voice pierced it all.

"Ed?"

And it was Peter.

Edmund's eyes rocketed open and he refused to shield them or squint because of the morning sun; he had to see that it was really Peter, that he was really here, that he was safe and not in that dungeon and he wasn't alone anymore.

And it was all true.

"Good morning," Edmund greeted, hoping Peter hadn't seen his display. If he had, Peter didn't say anything. He just smiled and came closer with a large silver tray.

"What's this all about?" Edmund asked as Peter set the tray on the far end of the bed where the blankets were still tucked in and smooth, as smooth as a sheet of thick, unbroken ice.

"It's breakfast, you dolt," Peter returned, grinning. Edmund glowered and Peter laughed. "It's my way of saying thank you. For...you know...last night," he finished, busying himself with steadying the teapot.

Edmund shifted very carefully, trying not to upset the tray.

"You didn't have to do this," Edmund reminded him.

"Neither did you," Peter replied immediately, holding out a cup of tea. "No sugar, right?" he added.

Edmund nodded and let the tiniest of smiles come back to him at the irony. He didn't trust himself to do or say much else, just let his brother hand him a plate of food and ate mechanically. Peter had his orange juice (he hated tea in the morning, for some reason; Edmund joked sometimes that Peter was really a gypsy baby because the rest of them couldn't get enough of the stuff).

Edmund was halfway through his eighth piece of toast when he realized something odd.

"You're not eating," he murmured through the crumbs.

Peter gave him a little half-smile from the other end of the bed, where he'd planted himself after pushing the tray over to the other side of the bed.

"Wasn't hungry," Peter said.

Edmund stared.

"Since when?" he countered.

"Since now," Peter replied, his voice grinding. Edmund knew that tone - Peter was getting annoyed.

Well, Edmund didn't care. Peter was hiding something and that wasn't going to fly with him.

"So you just woke up this morning, after at least twelve hours of not having eaten anything at all, and you're not hungry?" Edmund asked.

"That's right," Peter muttered, staring back at Edmund now with as much intensity as Edmund had seen from him. It was startling, but that didn't deter Edmund from his mission.

If he had been honest with himself, he'd have figured out that he was only pushing Peter so hard on this little detail, on this stupid inquisition because when he'd reached out this morning Peter wasn't there. He was never there when Edmund needed him - Lucy was, she'd saved his life. And when Edmund couldn't take the nightmares - not the dreams, not the coldness he woke up to sometimes, just the nightmares - he'd go to Susan in the middle of the night and she'd rock him and whisper to him. It was strangely familiar, and it always helped Edmund go to sleep again, right there in her arms.

But because Edmund had remembered that Peter was supposed to be there this morning, he didn't have to spend that half-hour he usually spent when he woke up cold being honest with himself. He didn't have to do that and he wasn't about to now.

So Edmund asked, "Isn't that a little ridiculous?"

"No, it's not. Now stop asking questions and get dressed. We've got to hold court today for those emissaries," Peter reminded him, easing himself off the bed.

Edmund watched as Peter stalked over to the other side of the bed, grabbed the tray, then headed for the door. He waited until Peter was just reaching for the doorknob to make his move.

"You know, Pete, you don't have to be embarrassed," he said.

And although he meant it, really meant it from his heart, Edmund was just saying it to be a prat.

"I'm not embarrassed," Peter ground out, one hand precariously balancing the tray, the other frozen halfway to the doorknob.

Edmund grinned - how predictable. That was Peter, always predictable, always easy to manipulate.

Always easy to lie to.

"And I'm wearing Lucy's underwear," Edmund fired back, letting himself go now, grin gushing. "C'mon, Peter. Spill."

Spill he nearly did - the tray wobbled and Peter had to jerk down and backwards to compensate, his other hand fumbling to grab hold of it once more. He got it under control just in time, though, and set it down on the cold stone floor - to get it out of his way, Edmund supposed. Then Peter walked over to his bedded brother, still looking down at the floor, not at Edmund - he hadn't looked at him since he'd been telling him with his eyes, pleading with his brother to stop it already, he didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to get honest right now.

But here was Peter, crawling back into the bed, and Edmund had to scoot over to make room.

"I shouldn't be talking to you about this," Peter murmured after a while. "It's my problem. I should be able to deal with it."

"You couldn't last night," Edmund reminded, remembering to coach it gently, to coax Peter into it.

"I know," Peter started, halted, started again, "I know, and I shouldn't be embarrassed. Everybody's afraid of something. Lucy has heights and Susan has spiders and I have storms. I know," Peter repeated.

Edmund's grin was gone now, replaced with alert eyes that yearned to take every little movement in, trying to read Peter's mood so he knew exactly what to say. So far, he wasn't doing very well.

"So what's wrong?" Edmund asked. He almost dared to put out a comforting hand, but, remembering the last time he'd reached out for his brother, stopped that as quickly as the instinct had come.

"That's just it," Peter replied. "It's wrong. I shouldn't be afraid of anything - much less storms. I'm inside, I can't get hit by lightning. I...I know it's silly, but..." he trailed off.

Edmund waited.

"I just...I shouldn't be afraid of anything, you know? I'm the High King," Peter finally said, letting everything out in one big, exasperated sigh.

Edmund smiled.

"You're right," Edmund agreed, "But you're also human. And that means you're not perfect. Not even close." Edmund punctuated this last with a playful jab to the ribs. Peter laughed a little.

"Gee, thanks, Ed. Glad to hear you've grown out of looking up to your big brother," he muttered.

He was smiling and it was clearly a joke, but Edmund couldn't help but hear a lingering sheet of melancholy drawn over it all. Maybe that's why he couldn't stop the next words from pouring out of his mouth.

"I never said that," Edmund pointed out. "And I don't think I ever will," he added a little more quietly - but he knew Peter heard by the beatific grin that was breaking out on his brother's face.

"Come on," Peter said, ruffling his brother's hair. "You need to get dressed, and so do I. Although, I must say, I think we should hold court in our pajamas sometime," he joked.

Edmund started to disentangle himself from the labyrinth of blankets he'd somehow been wrapped up in last night as he shied away from Peter's overbearing, warm hand.

"If you can convince Susan to go along with it, then by all means, go right ahead, Pete," Edmund shot back, easing out of the bed, feeling his lukewarm feet heat the cold stone floor. He was running his hand through his hair - correcting it, after Peter's intrusion - and just reaching for the handle of his wardrobe when a voice pierced it all.

"What were you doing when I came in this morning?" Peter called from over near the door.

Edmund looked as innocently as he could into the mirror that showed Peter's hazy reflection.

"Stretching, I think. Why do you ask?" he replied.

"No reason," Peter returned with a shrug. He smiled. "Thanks, Eddy," he added, smiled wider at Edmund's nod into the mirror, and shut the door to Edmund's room with a soft, final click.

Edmund changed out of his pajamas in one swift go, and as he reached for some underwear, naked, shivered at the sudden cold.

* * *

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed that. It was a little rough getting going, but I got into it after a bit. Please review! The final installment is next.**


	4. The Night's Aubade

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Narnia, the poems I quote (in the text and in the titles of Chapter 2 and 3, from Henri Cole's "Twilight"), or even my own wardrobe.**

**Author's Note: Last time, Edmund woke up, he and Peter had breakfast, and the brothers had a little heart-to-heart. For this final installment, we're going to catch up with Edmund at the end of the day and see what's going on with him. Hopefully I'll wrap up all your loose ends for you, and if I don't or even if I do, please be kind a leave a review! :)**

* * *

_Under my hand the moonlight lay!_

_Love, if you laugh I shall not care,_

_But if I weep it will not matter -_

_Ah, it is good to feel you there!_

- "The Dream", Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

The emissaries, as it turned out, were a royal bore. Edmund had to catch himself more than twice from just shredding their brainless list of complaints into confetti and then shoving that confetti down their stupid nasally throats. And the way the one dwarf laughed! It was like putting iron filings into a tin can and rattling it for hours and hours. By the time lunch had come around, Edmund was fit to be tied. Edmund thanked Aslan that Peter had had the sense to call a recess for the rest of the day after lunch and, not even asking Edmund if he were interested, took the two dunderheads hunting. They readily agreed. After all, Peter was the High King; disobeying him was a really stupid idea. At least they'd been smart enough to know that.

Edmund's fingers jarred his temples at the memory. He didn't have a headache but he was frustrated, and this seemed to help somehow. It gave him something to do with his fingers while he watched the world wind down from his balcony. Everything was still fresh and wet from the storm despite what the sun had done to drain that, and now the yellowish moon was watching him watching it. The stars had swept away the clouds, forcing themselves to be seen, forcing themselves into Edmund's attention. They were almost like those ridiculous emissaries who just couldn't let Edmund make a point before they were interrupting with a _non sequittur_.

Speaking of which, they should have been back by now. Peter didn't like to hunt for very long - it was Edmund who liked the woods, after all, Edmund who enjoyed getting away from the castle, Edmund who enjoyed solitude (relative, of course, because the guards _insisted_ on accompanying him, just in case). Peter always liked to be around people, right in the midst of things, always suggesting ideas whether they were good or bad or thought-out or not. He always loved to talk. Rooms always felt so silent without Peter around.

Edmund had barely heard the birds' song for the past five minutes now. It was getting late, far too late, and while Edmund knew Peter could take care of himself, the two featherbrains he was with probably didn't know which end of the crossbow was business. Maybe one of them had shot himself - all the better for Narnia, Edmund supposed.

Edmund had kept himself busy out on the balcony since a little after his sparring session near mid-evening. He had written some poetry, drawn a few of the trees in the distance (the trees, he found out once, after all these years of being drawn, still thought the whole idea quite flattering), filed his fingernails and toenails, sewed a few thorn-gashes in four of his tunics, and created twelve new hairstyles for himself. A serving-Faun had brought him some dinner, to whom Edmund was very thankful - roasted chicken and potatoes, his absolute favorite. He'd eaten it while the bells were announcing the impending sunset. Somehow the whole thing had felt familiar and he wondered how he'd even come to love this meal in the first place; but then a cool, leftover raindrop smashed onto his head from Peter's balcony above.

It had been frustrating when they were getting setlled into the castle: figuring out the royal routine, dealing with servants for the first time, dealing with each other's nagging. Even the living situation hadn't been easy. Edmund wasn't sure how it had happened that he had gotten this room - which he quite liked - but he'd seen Peter, furious, arguing with Oreius in another room on the matter. It had been perhaps their second day in Cair Paravel and already Peter was making a fuss. It was typical Peter and Edmund hadn't been concerned; when Peter emerged ten minutes later, still furious and tight-lipped, Oreius led them on a closer tour of the castle than Aslan had given them and pointed out which rooms were whose. Edmund had always figured Peter had been so upset about the room choice - that's what he'd been arguing about, Edmund had overheard that for sure when he bothered to eavesdrop for just a few seconds - because he'd been stuck so close to his baby brother. He probably wanted a room all to himself on the other side of the castle, far away from Edmund - and his sisters, too.

And Edmund hadn't really minded it after all because he got this balcony and this view and got to spend so much time out here alone. He really liked to be alone and left alone because he got to observe everything. From his perspective, everything was understandable. He'd seen so much body language, watched so many responses to so many stimuli; he was a scientist of Narnia, a Narnialogist. Edmund knew how to read a Narnian better than anyone, although it took a while; Lucy was always better at it, intuitively, from the first impression. But Edmund always ended up arriving to the same conclusion as she had - it just took a while.

Peter, though, was taking too long. The moonlight rivered on his arm, mixing with his lamplight as he drew the bottom of Peter's balcony. There wasn't much interesting about it, but Edmund knew it was there for a reason - so he drew it anyway. Besides, he was bored.

Horses galloping in the far distance fluttered to his ears just as he was finishing the rough sketch. Edmund glanced over and squinted into the moonlight, just making out Peter's familiar heraldry on his Horse. There were the two emissaries behind him - and, unfortunately, it hadn't looked like either of them had shot themselves - and some of the royal guard. Edmund smiled and stretched and set his work aside. His stretch lengthened into a yawn and he figured he might as well go to bed. He needed all the time he could to try and get some sleep.

The sketches were collected and replaced on his desk. The day clothes were folded and laid in the hamper. The pajamas were retrieved and unfolded and donned fluidly. The lamp was picked up and carried over near the bed to its usual spot, then blown out. The neat, self-made bed was uncovered and Edmund sunk in, encompassing himself thoroughly within it all. Everything had its own place. Everything was organized. Everything was right.

Edmund fell asleep quickly.

--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--

In his dream, Edmund was in a garden somewhere. He'd never seen the place before, but it was familiar somehow, like he'd forgotten where it was. Perhaps he'd seen it when it was covered in snow, on the Queen's tour through the rapidly thawing wilds.

Jadis' tour, he corrected himself. She was no Queen.

The garden wasn't all that should be here, considering it wasn't very large at all, but it was almost all Edmund could see. There were crabapple trees at the edges of his vision and the grass was colored somewhere between yellow and green. There was a boy standing in the middle of the garden, a boy with floppy black hair. He looked down at the ground, at the fleshy dirt, trying to find something interesting in it. Edmund was pretty sure that wasn't going so well.

A sandy-haired boy wandered into his vision. The black-haired boy heard the sound and whirled. Then he backed up, backed away from the other boy. Edmund was a little scared - for the boy. The sandy-haired boy looked like he was about to pummel him: lips tightly shut, eyes flaring, a small thick branch from one of the crabapple trees in one hand and a vermillion watering can in the other. When the younger boy got to the edge of the garden, he lost his footing and tripped, falling hard into the yellow-green grass.

Edmund shut his eyes - or thought he was shutting his eyes, felt the urge to do so even though it did nothing, he could still see the scene - when the black-haired boy flinched and the sandy-haired boy raised the stick high. It was coming, it was coming, and it was going to hurt -

And then the stick came thudding into the ground and Edmund noticed for the first time that on the end of it was a tiny sign that read, "POTATOS" with a forgotten "e" slipped in between the "O" and the "S" in messy cursive. Edmund thought it looked familiar, like Peter's handwriting, that "e" - the rest looked a little like his own.

The sandy-haired boy was crouched over now, smiling at the black-haired boy with half of himself in the grass and the other half in the garden. The sandy-haired boy held out the watering can to the other boy. Edmund took it and smiled back slowly and the sandy-haired boy helped him to his feet. The black-haired boy leant over and began watering the four rows, starting with the line of potatoes. Edmund didn't notice when the other boy left the scene but he noticed that he did, he had left and he was gone and wasn't coming back.

A woman's voice called out, "Come inside, boys!"

She sounded familiar and the black-haired boy began to water faster. He had to do this now. That would get him inside, to the woman. That might make the woman smile. Edmund couldn't wait to see her - she sounded like a lovely lady.

The black-haired boy was just nearing the other edge of the garden when he looked up at her. Had she always been there? He hadn't seen her before.

But she was there: a vision in white except for the red, red lips and the yellow smile.

"Hello, Edmund," Jadis whispered.

She was close now, so close, and the crabapple trees began to wither and ice over, he could see it, but he wasn't going to stop. The black-haired boy looked away and down at the ground again, watering methodically. Edmund wished he would go faster.

The water started coming out slower and slower now, trickling; Jadis was freezing it, he knew it. The boy didn't want to look up when he saw her white dress in front of him, didn't want to look up to see it all frozen, everything dead and dying.

"Come inside, boys! Dinner's ready!" the other woman called again.

Jadis' cold hand ripped the boy's chin up and Edmund felt his vision jerk up and then he was staring at the sandy-haired boy again. The older boy took the watering can and the black-haired boy's hand and led him out of the garden. The boy looked back over his shoulder as he was led and Edmund noticed no snow anywhere, the smell of roasted chicken in the air, and a brief bit of warmth in his hand.

--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--

Edmund awoke and saw only darkness, eyes clamped shut, smelled only the cold and felt only the chill and he was back _there_. Jadis' greeting lingered in his ears. He felt her hand still on his chin and, frenzied, his hands scrambled to get it off. He kept reaching for it but his hands kept getting batted away and he was trapped, trapped forever in the dungeon, left with the cold and the guilt and could only dream of his family -

He could only dream.

And then he remembered and opened his eyes and found that the blankets had trapped him again. He gently slid his hands around the labryinth to free them and pulled the covers off from over his head so he could see. The moonlight nearly blinded him, shining onto the pillow and the side of the bed Edmund had left untouched.

Mechanized somehow by the moonlight, Edmund's hand reached out. It stretched further and further until the moonlight was just underneath his fingertips. Then he plunged his hand into it and watched the stark whiteness of his hand on the white pillow.

Remembering who had lain there last night, Edmund kicked off the sheets and slid out of the bed, ignoring the instinct to tuck the sheets back into place. His legs, still asleep, wobbled; he kicked the lamp and slid into his desk, sending some of his sketches flying. He stepped on and slightly crumpled the one of the underside of Peter's balcony as he tottered across his room, across the patch of moonlight and back into the darkness again, heading for the door.

He wasn't thinking, didn't want to think about much of anything because the dream was still so fresh. He weaved like a drunkard through the claustrophobic stone hallways and up the vertigo-inducing stairs and more hallways until he finally made it to the right door. He knocked. He heard a crashing and a stumbling and a few muttered curses and then the door was wrenched open and there was Peter, sandy hair akimbo, sleep-drugged eyes rapidly widening.

Edmund was confused because he'd had a nightmare, hadn't he? So shouldn't he be knocking at Susan's door, Susan who was always composed and tidy when she came to the door, smiling and letting him inside, ready to rock him back to sleep with that familiar voice's lullaby?

He wasn't thinking, couldn't think about it any longer, and so he pitched forward suddenly, his legs deciding that they weren't going to hold him right now.

Peter gasped and caught him by the shoulders, heaving his brother into his chest, stumbling down and backwards to balance the sudden weight.

"Edmund? What's the matter?" he asked, his voice all warm velvet and concern and Edmund couldn't think about anything so he just tried to push on Peter to get his balance back again. But the push was too weak and Peter's grip was so strong so he just gave up and let Peter half-carry, half-drag him over to the bed. There, Edmund felt himself be gently deposited into the soft down and blue comforters. Peter crouched over the bedside and stared straight into Edmund's eyes.

"Ed? What d'you need?" he asked. They stared and stared, the moonlight falling onto Peter's shoulders and face. It was almost too bright to look at.

Eventually, Edmund lied, "Water."

He needn't have said any more. Peter was off like a jackrabbit and within five seconds a glass of warm, room temperature water was pressed into Edmund's hands and he was being forced to drink it, forced again to do something he didn't want to. He almost choked.

Peter didn't let him finish until the glass was drained. Then Peter took it from him and set it on the quiet bedside table and stared at him again, his eyes so earnestly blue in the moonlight that Edmund couldn't stand to look anymore and looked beyond it all to the closed door at the edge of everything.

Peter sighed. Edmund could detect a sheet of melancholy behind it all but he couldn't think about that, not with Jadis suddenly at the door, beckoning.

Peter was beginning to rise, presumably to get back into bed and write the whole thing off until morning, but Edmund sharply reached out with both hands.

This time, they found what he was looking for.

Edmund grabbed Peter's waist and thrust his brother onto him, or at least halfway. Peter's arms went flying a little but Edmund didn't care that one whacked him in the head because the pain was real and warm where he'd been hit; it almost felt nice. He kept his arms firmly around his brother's torso, hugging him, grasping at him, shaking and shuddering and warm salty tears were gushing now but he didn't care. Jadis screamed at the door, a scream Peter didn't hear, and then she was gone, wandering out of his vision forever.

And Peter was hugging him back now, having shifted himself to be firmly on the bed and Edmund in his arms.

"Shh," Peter whispered. "It's okay, Eddy. I've got you."

Edmund almost cried himself into sleep, but something was stopping him. He hiccupped his tears to a trickle and made himself try to speak.

"Pete?" he asked.

"Shh," Peter insisted. Edmund wasn't about to listen to that.

"Pete, please," Edmund whispered.

"All right," Peter said.

Edmund hiccupped a few breaths, gathering strength.

"D'you ever go out on your balcony?" he asked. "To, you know, look at things?"

It was an odd question and it came from somewhere he couldn't identify but he knew he had to know the answer.

"I dunno. Sometimes, yeah," Peter replied. Then he added, "Usually it's when I hear you singing."

Edmund knew he was blushing but he couldn't think about it.

"Sorry," he said.

Peter squeezed him tighter.

"Don't be," he insisted and this time Edmund didn't mind so much that he was being told what to do. "You're really good."

They sat there for a little while until Edmund finally stopped crying. Then Peter spoke up again.

"You know, I was always jealous of you for that," he admitted.

"For what?" Edmund asked, not really thinking.

"Your singing," Peter said. "And your drawing, and your grades in primary school. You were always better at school than I was."

"Yeah, well, you always ran faster and you never let me win at anything and you still dance better than I do. So I guess we're even," Edmund replied.

Peter started to laugh a little and Edmund rolled over and out of his brother's arms, staring into that laughing face, thinking. Something had just happened there, something important, something that by all means shouldn't have happened but had.

But he couldn't figure out what or why that laugh sounded so familiar.

"I was hoping you'd be okay once I got those idiots out of the way," Peter was saying and Edmund had to refocus, his mind shifting until he figured out what Peter's words and that cocky little smile meant.

He'd known. He was paying attention after all - he knew the emissaries were annoying him so he got them out of there as fast as he could.

"You stupid prat," Edmund muttered, smiling, "You should've just passed them off on the girls and made them go pick flowers or something." He left off the part where he said thank-you for sacrificing his patience and day like that, but he knew Peter was paying attention.

"See? You've always got the great ideas," Peter said.

Edmund knew he was blushing, but he didn't care. Peter laughed when he saw it and Edmund didn't really care about that either, although he kicked him in the shin so that the laugh got hiccupped with a quick cry of surprise. Both of them were smiling, though.

Soon Peter stopped laughing and Edmund stopped blushing and the moonlight reminded Edmund to yawn.

"You should try and get some sleep now," Peter suggested.

Edmund nodded but didn't roll over, just shut his eyes right there and wrapped his arms around himself. He felt Peter's arms go around him again.

"You don't have to do that," Edmund muttered.

"I know," Peter replied. But he didn't let go.

After a few moments, Edmund said, "Pete?"

"Yeah, Ed?" Peter replied.

"We should have these talks more often," he said.

"We should," Peter agreed.

A few more moments of silence.

Then, Edmund repeated, "Pete?"

"Yes, Ed?" came the tired, sing-song reply.

"You know how you said everyone's afraid of something?" he asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

"Well," Edmund trailed off. "You weren't lying."

It took Peter a few moments, but Edmund knew he figured out what he meant.

A few more moments of silence.

Then, Edmund said again, "Pete?"

"What, Edmund?" Peter asked, on the verge of grinding his voice but not there yet, still amused by it all, Edmund could tell.

"I missed you. And Susan, and Lucy. Every day she had me, I missed you," Edmund admitted. He left out the part where he was afraid they had died, that the Witch's wolves had gotten them all.

"I know," Peter whispered. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

Edmund smiled into the warm blankets and his brother's warm arms and let it all go.

* * *

**Author's Note: So...that's it. :) I hope you enjoyed. It was a pleasure to write it, and I'm happy with what I ended up doing. I hoped I wrapped it all up neatly for you and that you're all going to recover from the sugar shock soon! Hee. Please review!**


End file.
